My 'Vault'
by KingHenry
Summary: I've seen other people call their archive of 1-shots or ideas a 'vault', so I figured I might as well too :) Story 1, Foster Father, may become a Fanfic later on.
1. Foster Father

**1\. Foster Father**

A grim, hazy fog strolled lazily over the city of London, foreshadowing the massive storm to come. Thunderclouds rolled in slowly, as if hesitant, and then faster and faster until they blotted out the blue of the sky.

Officer Henry Pocock looked out the window, saw the clouds, and frowned. He jotted down some notes. He puffed his cigar. He looked out the window again. The clouds were still there.

His frown grew more pronounced. He left the comfort of his armchair and headed into the street, still eyeing the dark clouds suspiciously. The weatherman had forecasted a clear, cloudless night! Clearly, something was wrong.

He'd been looking forward to a night of stargazing. His hopes were dashed as the beginnings of a rain dripped onto the cobbled street. No, this weather wasn't going away anytime fast.

He returned to his armchair, typed a few more notes, sent an email which said nothing in particular to nobody in particular, and packed up his bags and left the building.

He arrived at Number 7, Agate Terrace, at precisely 6:21 P.M. He parked his car in his garage, entered the house through the back door, and pilfered his refrigerator in search of a coffee.

Having found said coffee, he reclined on his chair, stretched his back, and turned on the telly. A sound of thunder filled the small home; rain clattered loudly against the panes. He looked up, annoyed, and turned off the TV. No point in watching, really. He couldn't hear anything over this racket!

The doorbell suddenly rang. He sat up in his seat and looked over the edge of the leather sofa. The doorbell rang again. He sighed. He dragged himself to the door, his arms lead weights against his sides. Whoever came calling at this late an hour had better have a good excuse!

~Earlier that day~

Professor Mcgonagall was adamant. "You can't send Harry to live with those muggles! They're the worst of the worst! Surely you can find a more suitable parent?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I've tried everything, Minerva…"

"What constitutes a relative? Perhaps you could go back a generation or two and count the family tree from there!" Mcgonagall suggested.

Albus sighed. There was no winning an argument against a woman like Minerva Mcgonagall.

"Very well, I'll try…"

To his immense surprise, Harry did happen to have another relative- just one, mind you- a software engineer, living in London.

His name was George Shultz. He was an American who'd found a job open in Britain, and had jumped at the opportunity. Nearly all of his money each month was spent on housing and food. It was clear the poor man was surviving by the skin of his teeth.

"Minerva, I have found one living relative of Harry's other than the Dursleys, but he's in deep debt. He barely manages to keep his home, for heaven's sake! He can't afford to watch over someone like Harry!" Dumbledore said, almost placatingly.

"Alright, maybe not that one. Surely you can find somebody else, though. Somebody on his mother's side, maybe?" she asked in an almost pleading tone.

Professor Dumbledore sighed again. "I've tried everything, Minerva! There's nothing for it, he'll have to stay with the Dursleys."

"Not if I have a say in it! I've SEEN the way that…woman… looks at Lily! She hates her! She'll hate her son even more! By throwing Harry into their house you are sentencing him to hell on earth!" Mcgonagall spat. Dumbledore sighed. "Alright, I'll go back one more generation and count the bloodline down another segment… this will severely weaken the Blood wards, though…"

He looked pointedly at Mcgonagall. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named still can't get in, can he?"

Albus wrung his hands. "Well, no, but-"

"Then it's settled. Find the most suitable foster parent for Harry among the third generation's children."

After a few moments of silence (and a whole lot of wand waving) Albus decided on a guardian. "Henry Pocock seems to fit the bill admirably. He's a police officer with a strong sense of right and wrong. He's got a lot of hobbies, too, and is very interested in certain branches of science."

Minerva nodded thoughtfully. "That could work. Can you arrange for Hagrid to drop him off there?"

"Certainly."

~oOo~

Henry Pocock looked out the door and saw only smothering darkness, his spluttering front porch light, his old Welcome Mat, and a bundle with a baby in it. In other words, everything was as it had been an hour ago. He closed the door, dismissing the ring as some prankster's sick idea of a joke.

He was halfway back to his armchair when logic kicked in. Wait a minute.. a bundle with a baby in it!? He dashed back to the doorstep and threw open the door. On the floor, just shy of the Welcome Mat, lay a small, wooden crib. A small boy lay sleeping in the cold, clutching a large, professional-looking letter in his tiny hands.

Henry was in shock. Who in their right mind would leave a baby alone in the cold on a stranger's doorstep?! He knelt beside the boy and studied the little child. He was very cute, even for a baby. His mouth tilted to one side, allowing the slightest bit of drool to escape out the sides. A small, thin, red dot ran along his forehead, barely visible in the lamplight. Henry brushed back the little locks of hair, tracing the line with a cautious finger.

He gasped. What he had mistaken for a cut was a long, thin scar running along the top of the child's forehead. What kind of sadistic madman would do this to an innocent baby!? He sat there in shock for quite a while, not knowing what to do.

The child gurgled, rolling to one side. He caught a glimpse of the letter; inscribed on the side, in boldened red ink, was his name- _To: Mr. Henry Pocock._

Curious now, he inched his fingers forward, carefully tugging the card from the boy's grasp. He opened the letter with a careful hand and read it, scarcely believing his eyes.

_Dear Mr. Pocock,_

_If you are reading this letter, then you must have found little Harry Potter. This little boy here is your nephew, a few times removed. He's an orphan, and nobody will take him in. If you refuse to provide him shelter, then he will surely be sent to an orphanage. We beg of you to take him in, and to provide him a good home. _

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Dumbledore_

Henry looked at the letter with an arched eyebrow. It sounded a tad bit shady… the words were just a tad bit manipulative, almost compelling. The writer seemed to be placing the burden of fatherhood on him! It wasn't his duty to provide a good home! And then he looked down at the child, and sighed.

He couldn't bear the thought of having this tiny, cute little boy shipped off to some sort of ratty orphanage. Grasping the crib by the top he lugged it in, gently closing the door behind him as to not disturb Harry's sleep.


	2. The Brotherhood

Hammond Wright stepped cautiously over the wrought-iron threshold, warily scanning the heavily armored figures guarding the heavy, silver door. He crossed the religiously trimmed lawn in three paces and made his way across the path, feeling increasingly nervous.

"My name is Hammond, Hammond Wright." he dictated clearly, almost shouting the words before he could lose his nerve.

The man to the left gave a small nod. "State your business."

Hammond gulped. "I… I would like to join the Brotherhood."

Silence.

The guard cocked his head. "Are you familiar with the terms and conditions?"

Hammond licked his lips. They were suddenly very, very dry. "I… uh… yes, yes I am." he managed to stutter.

The second guard gave a concise nod. "Follow me."

He tapped his hand against the door, a kind of a password. The several-ton metal gate swept slowly open with the slightest of creaks, revealing a dimly lit corridor. The two entered; the gate swung shut behind them.

Hammond gulped again. The furniture, the decor, the high, arched ceilings… everything about the place seemed gothic and unwelcoming. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here…

But it was too late for second thoughts now. The guard had pulled considerably ahead. Yelping, Hammond made after him, struggling to match the brisk pace.

"May I ask… where are we going?"

"All newcomers are initiated by the Prince."

Hammond's eyes widened at this. The Prince himself?! The guard caught his disbelieving gaze and chuckled. "Don't flatter yourself. You'll need to qualify first. I'm sure you've heard; the Brotherhood is a very exclusive group."

Hammond nodded. "Yes… I've heard that…" he muttered distractedly, gazing at the murals. Each stroke fell neatly upon each other like a row of dominoes, each complimenting each other to create a masterpiece of art. It was mesmerizing to look at.

"Picasso?" he asked, gesturing. The guard shook his head. "No; the Prince painted that himself. Enough questions."

They continued their walk in relative silence. The hall was unbelievably long, stretching at least a thousand feet. Doors and corridors jutted out of the walls at random places, giving the place a rather random feel.

_Clop-clop-clop_.

Their footsteps echoed through the hall.

_Clop-clop-clop._

Beads of sweat began to pepper Hammond's neck as they approached the final door. "Do not touch." the guard said, placing his hand upon the frame quite hypocritically. Seeing Hammond's quizzical glance, he explained: "The door is DNA coded, a bit like Gringott's system. We can't have aurors breaking their way in, can we now?"

Hammond laughed a nervous laugh.

"Er… yeah…"

The door finally swung open, to reveal, quite anticlimactically, an empty hall. "This is our Room of Requirement. You will be tested here for the next month; all new initiates are. Every member of the Brotherhood must be loyal to all other members. Be warned: We don't handle betrayal kindly."


	3. Champion of Apollo (Percy Jackson)

The cloaked figure sat comfortably on the edge of the boughs of the spruce tree, his eyes trained on a silver temple. He analyzed the building with cold, calculating eyes.

Seven shifts of ten hunters patrolled the grounds, each armed with bow and arrow. Inside the temple itself, enchanted runes protected a large, thick golden bow. Bottomless quivers of thousands of arrows lay to the side, obscured by the dark of the night.

He jumped from the tree and landed with a muted thump, his knives in hand. He shifted across the empty expanse in three quick strides, his eyes gleaming in the cold air.

A tall guard stood with her back to the temple, eyeing the forest with a suspicious eye. The Hunter waited with bated breath. The guard turned. He grinned. She suspected nothing.

The knife raced out of its scabbard with a dulled hiss; the guard turned in surprise as the silver weapon streaked through the air…

_Thump_.

She hit the ground with a mundane finality, the knife still buried shallowly in her throat. The Hunter grinned with a grim satisfaction. He advanced up the dimly lit meadow, drawing another knife.

He was close to the temple now, so close he could feel the power of Artemis radiating off of the marble. Footsteps sounded in the distance; in three quick strides, he crossed the expanse and threw himself behind a pillar.

Voices, disembodied voices droned from behind-

"So boring here. Nothing ever happens."

"Lady Artemis is extremely protective of her sacred weapon; it is an honor to guard it!"

"To h*ll with honor. I want some action!"

The Hunter grinned. She desired action?

A silver blur raced through the air and struck the throat of the first girl; she collapsed screaming and clawing at the air. The other guard was instantly on high alert.

"Who is there?" she said, her voice trembling. "Show yourself!"

The second knife lodged itself in her arm; she fell, dropping her bow. The Hunter sneered. Untrained weaklings.

Before he could react, the second guard, a second from unconsciousness, lobbed her arrow with the last of her strength. He watched in horror as it struck the glass windows, shattering the panes into a thousand pieces.

Alarms shrieked from all four corners of the compound. The Hunter cursed and ran into the room, shattering the protective wards with a flick of his palm. Large, metal pylons collapsed through the area; he dodged them with the agility of a cat.

Only one wall separated him from the Celestial bow. He drew his hammer and ripped through the wall, crushing the door into splinters of wood and dust. There it was! The brilliant, golden bow lay unguarded in the center of the room, its crystals sending fractals of light rippling through the room.

The Hunter raced across the carpet and snatched the bow with his gloved hand. A harsh pain cut at his hand the moment it made contact; he winced. If not for the Gloves of Apollo, he'd surely be a pile of ashes.

Footsteps, loud footsteps sounded in the distance; he turned to find himself staring at the notched bows of 7 huntresses.

"So… you think you can just waltz in here and take our mistress's Sacred Weapon?" the lead huntress sneered. "Foolish boy. Kill him!"

7 arrows streaked toward the Hunter.

He could feel the projectiles, could feel them whistling through the air…

In one fluid motion, he whipped both hands; the arrows froze in mid-air; they clattered to the floor, harmless.

He somersaulted over the shocked huntresses' heads and onto the marble staircase, the Celestial bow in hand. Far behind him, a voice shrieked.

"You killed Chloe!"

The girl threw herself at the Hunter in a wild fury. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, forcing the knife out of her grasp. He set his other hand against the huntress's throat.

"Move, and she dies." he whispered. His voice carried across the din; the huntresses stopped.

"Foolish girl. The knife wounds are skin wounds; their serrated edges carry sedatives. None of your friends are dead. I am not a killer."

"You… you horrible thief!"

He chuckled. "That I am."

The silver-tipped boot lashed out; the girl was sent sprawling back to her huntresses- a distraction. The Hunter streaked back into the forest with the speed of a jaguar. He was lost in the trees within half a second, leaving behind a troupe of mystified Hunters.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~

"What. Happened. To. My. Weapon!?" Artemis articulated, fuming. Zoë cringed and bowed lower, beads of sweat forming on her brow. "Well… you see, mistress… er… a man… stole it?"

"STOLE IT?! What happened to my elite guards?"

Zoë could feel the sweat slithering down her neck. "Er.. he incapacitated them?"

"A lapse of security, then. I should turn all of you into jackalopes!"

A golden flash of light lit the room; Artemis turned to find her twin, Apollo, grinning a cocky grin.

"What do you want, Apollo? I am in the middle of something…"

Apollo raised a finger for silence. "And it just so happens that I can help you!"

Artemis laughed. "You? What can you do, other than radiate stupidity?"

Her twin scowled. "My champion stole the bow, you know."

A collective gasp filled the room. "Your… champion?!"

"Yup!"

Artemis narrowed her eyes. "You ordered my weapon stolen?!"

"Wow, you're sharp, Artemis. Only took you about 10 seconds! New record!"

The silver-eyed goddess gritted her teeth. "Apollo. Give me back my bow, or I swear I shall murder you a hundred times over-"

"Ah, save it, sis. You know as well as I do that the bow gives its allegiance to whomever it deems worthy… and it seems that it has found a new champion!"

"You lie." Artemis's eyes were truly on fire now. "YOU LIE!"

"Why would I lie about something like this?" Apollo said, still grinning infuriatingly. "I will command him to give the boy back… for a price, of course."

"Name it."

"Alright. I want Zoë Nightshade."

A silence.

"You. Want. One. Of. My. Hunters?!"

"Yup. She's pretty hot, you know."

The only thing stopping Artemis from filling her twin with arrows was the possibility of losing her bow forever.

"... No. You cannot have one of my hunters. Name something else."

Apollo wagged his finger. "Nope. I want Zoë."

"GAH!" Artemis burst. "F*ck you, Apollo! I will hunt down this… Champion… of yours, and I will kill him! Then I shall travel to the underworld, and kill him over and over again!"

The golden god shrugged. "You can certainly try."

Still grinning, he vanished in a supernova of light.


	4. A Potter on the Streets

Harry James Potter lay panting in his cupboard under the stairs in Number 4, Privet Drive, fuming silently. The Dursleys had never treated him with the remotest sign of respect, but they were taking things too far.

Harry was fairly certain that beating a child was an illegal activity in modern England (not that he'd know, though; the Dursleys had never let him near any kind of law book), but he'd kept his peace. He didn't want to stir the pot and give his monstrous relatives yet another reason to hate him.

Starvation, however, was another thing entirely. The willing starvation of a young child… now THAT was an act of hatred. All of the years he'd lived with the Dursleys he'd hoped beyond hope that maybe, just maybe, they had a tiny spark of love in their hearts. This naive hope was crushed underfoot, stomped, and spat on. No, they had no love for him. He was vermin.

And now here he was, slowly dying of starvation and hypothermia, huddling under the stairs, struggling to keep warm under a pathetic excuse for a blanket. He hated every moment of it.

For the fiftieth time that day, a cold draft blew through the staircase, sweeping down upon the small boy like the hand of the devil. He huddled ever tighter and sneezed. The sound echoed through the empty house.

Empty… oh, of course. The Dursleys would never abide with a week without heating. They'd packed their bags and left at the first sign of the snowstorm, leaving Harry with a cruel '_Wish you were here!_' postcard from their vacation in the Bahamas and the slightest bit of overdue cereal and milk.

His empty stomach rumbled and growled. Harry sighed. It looked like he'd have to find some food for himself. He unfolded his arms and legs and stood, draping the tattered old blanket around him to fend off the biting wind.

Ah, the dreaded hallway. The Dursleys had never bothered to pay for a heater; as such, the hallway was always drafty and cold. Shivering for the hundredth time that day, he slowly ascended the spiraling staircase to the upper floors, trying to find some refuge- and perhaps some tiny morsel.

There were four rooms in the Dursley household- one master bedroom, one guest room and two rooms for Dudley. It came as no surprise to Harry that all of them were locked. "Figures!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. He pounded his fist against the door frame for a while, panting in fury.

He walked back down the stairs and into the empty kitchen. It was a very strange feeling; the Dursleys never let him near any type of cutlery, and here he was, rummaging through their silverware drawers. From under a stack of spoons and forks, he produced a long, thin knife. He grinned. Perfect.

He traipsed up the stairs and tried the handle again, studying the small keyhole with a scrutinizing eye. With a careful hand, he inserted the knife into the small hole and twisted it for all it was worth.

He was rewarded with a faint _click!_ With bated breath, he pushed open the door.

A glorious sight filled his view.

Sheets! A bed! Pillows galore! Harry gaped, wide-eyed, as the solution to his problems presented themselves in one bundle of heavenly goodness. He gave a piglike squeal and pounced onto the bed, covering himself with loads upon loads of blankets, loving every moment of it…

Joy quickly turned to hatred. The Dursleys had all this, and they weren't willing to divulge even the smallest part of it for their freezing, starving nephew!? Harry's emerald-green eyes flashed; under the lamplight, they looked almost scarlet. He stood, draping himself in the sheets, turned around, and unbuttoned his pants. With a special care he let loose on the glorious bed. By the time he was done, the entire room stank of urine.

He grinned and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

The grin quickly faded as his stomach growled, reminding him of his second predicament. He stalked toward Dudley's room and forced the metallic door open, hoping that the fat boy left a small portion of his mountain of snacks behind.

He was not disappointed. Half-eaten potato chip bags littered the bed. Candy wrappers, carelessly tossed aside, filled the floors like a minefield of junk.

Picking his way across the threshold, he grabbed at a bag of chips and shoved everything down his throat. They were delicious, by far the most amazing thing he'd ever tasted- but that wasn't saying much; he'd been fed refried beans for 6 years. Gathering up the rest of the bags, he left the room and returned to the cupboard. Even scavengers and beggars, he realized, lived a nicer life than him. The very thought made his insides boil.

Harry finished the bags within half an hour and tossed them onto the couch and floor, ruining the immaculate picture. He yawned, stretched himself, and returned to his cupboard for a long nap, the Dursley's massive blanket strewn around his small frame.

He woke up around an hour later, feeling quite refreshed. Yawning, he made his way to the kitchen and checked the tattered calendar nailed forcefully to the wall. The Dursleys would be back in four days.

And then the full realization of what he'd done hit him like a baseball bat. He'd peed on the Dursleys' bed. He'd defiled Dudley's room. Oh, god. They were going to be _SO_ angry. For some reason, the thought made him giggle.

It was funny in a strange way to Harry. The weeds, which were tended usually by him, were spiking in their growth. The house, which had remained immaculate thanks to him, was falling into disrepair. The living room, which was tidied so carefully by him, was now littered with trash. He idly wondered what the Dursleys would do without their slave.

His current predicament was not unlike the survival TV shows Dudley had insisted on watching. The contestants were made to survive in a forest; the Dursley's house was a veritable forest now. They were given no food; Harry had ran out of food a little while back. They were made to survive several days in the harsh wilderness; Harry was made to survive without his 'family' for several days.

Now… what did the contestants do, again? Most of them had panic attacks and withdrew without twenty-four hours, he knew that much. One nearly died of dehydration and was forced to drink his own piss. Harry wrinkled his nose. He would never drink his own piss, at least not of his own accord. He had one advantage over the survivalists, though: he was in the city. In the city, the possibilities were endless. The possibility of thievery crossed his mind; he dismissed it. No, he wouldn't steal unless he absolutely had to.

An idea suddenly sparked in his head. He raced down to the garage to the Dursley family safe- something that the stingy family had forbidden him from even seeing. He'd heard his aunt talking drunkenly to her neighbor one day about the backup riches stashed in the large, black box. The only question was: how to open it?

The knife trick certainly didn't work. He tried configuring the locks several different ways. None elicited the satisfying _click_ of a lock opened. In a bout of frustration, he slammed his knife onto the top of the crate. It split open with a dull _thwack_.

Harry glanced in amazement; then he grinned. Stupid Dursleys, keeping their treasures in cheap, unreliable safes. With both hands, he ripped open the container.

Mounds upon mounds of cash lay in the box. He looked, his eyes glazed, upon the stacks of fifty pound notes. Small Post-Its lay in the center-

"_Government adoption funds_." was written in bold, black ink. He cursed, disbelieving, as he filed through the notes. The money had been from the British government for child care! It had been sitting here, accumulating dust, for God knows how long. Disbelief hardened into a cold resolve. He picked up the container, safe and all, and dumped all of the money to the floor. The sheer amount made his head spin. He'd never seen so much paper accumulated in one place before. There must have been thousands!

He knew of a Mcdonalds nearby; perhaps he could spend the money there. It wasn't the healthiest option, but it was the only option, really. He pulled out a fifty pound note. It was still shocking to him to own such a large quantity of money. And to think! It had been here, under his 'room', for years! At any given moment, he could've had the money to afford to be sent to school, to afford three meals a day.

A sudden, incessant knocking filled the room. Harry's heart sank. Had the Dursleys cut their vacation early? With a shaking hand, he forced open the door…

"Girl scout cookies!" a cheery voice exclaimed. A small girl, no more than 6 years old, dressed in a plaid shirt, presented him with a large stack of cookie jars. Harry grinned. "I'll buy the lot! Keep the change." He passed her a fifty pound note. The girl's eyes widened in surprise.

"Thank- thank you…" she stuttered, her eyes disbelieving. She ran off, eager to show her parents. Harry chuckled and brought in the cookies.

His food problem was solved, it seemed. Water was no issue either; the tap water would have to do. It seemed that all of his living requirements were settled. Now all he had to do was play the waiting game. He settled into the couch, turned on the TV, and tried to bury himself in the thick cushions.


	5. Scion of Vulcan

_THUMP. Crack_.

Hephaestus looked up from his still-glowing helmet and steadied his hammer against the workbench. He'd heard the most peculiar sound, like wood cracking on stone; it reverberated oddly through his volcanic forge.

Sniffing in frustration, he abandoned his project and marched up the obsidian steps, quite annoyed. What on earth DARES disturb a god's work- and near midnight, no less! Grumbling, he picked his way across discarded bolts and into the night.

His eyes adjusted to the dark instantly, a perk of being a god. His pupils glowed like searchlights, swiveling on a giant axis. Rocks… rocks… rocks… wood splinters… rocks…

Wait a minute. Wood splinters?!

He raced down the rocky slope, not even bothering to don his rocket boots. What in the world?

Picking up the remains of the wood, he sniffed. A peculiar scent- human, no doubt- but it reeked of the sea god. Now THAT was interesting. Had Poseidon broken his Oath?

"Waah!" a loud, infantile voice shrieked, startling the god.

"Who's there?" he shouted in what he hoped to be a menacing voice.

He turned in the direction of the voice. Collapsed against the rocks lay a child, clearly bleeding, with a small package buried in her arms. Hephaestus gasped and made his way to the infant, scarcely believing his eyes. "What… what happened?"

The baby cried even louder. Of course. It was foolish to expect an answer.

He gingerly took the parcel and ripped it open. A small, parched letter lay within; with a trembling hand, he forced it open. Words, shakily written words were printed toughly onto the sheet in what looked like human blood.

_To whomever it may concern, _

_Please, dear sir or madam, take care of my only child. [Indecipherable text] done all that I can do. _

And that was all. He ripped apart the badly written paper, his eyes burning. Who in their right mind would leave a child on his doorstep!? He stood there for quite a while, staring disbelieving at the note.

"Waah!"

The sharp voice snapped him out of his reverie. He turned slowly to the small boy in the crib.

A warm, comfortable feeling wormed its way through his heart- it was something akin to amusement, an emotion he hadn't felt in millenia.

An internal conflict raged. Should he keep the child, or send him away? The first option seemed to be the right one; his conscience would never allow him to abandon a child to fend for himself. As much as he hated to admit it, there was still a part of him that longed for family, longed for the company of non-bigots.

Sighing, he grabbed the crib and roughly made his way back across the rocks.

* * *

**Eleven years later…**

Sparks flew in waves from the sparkling piece of metal, hitting the walls and dissipating off of the bronze sheets. The small figure tore off his mask and glanced proudly at his project.

The metal formed a nice, circular shape, caving in at parts and protruding at others. Two long arms extended outwards, forming an easily detachable set.

In other words, a breastplate of Celestial bronze armor.

Only with a few modifications.

He'd been working on this for years on end; and now it was finally time to install it. With a careful hand, he lowered a large, robotic mass onto the top of the plate. A moment of silence. And then-

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The engine saddled itself into the plate, forming a large mold. Gears whirred and hummed as the entire piece came to life, glowing an eerie light.

The figure smiled.

"How goes the work, Percy?"

"Great, Uncle Heph!"

A grizzled man made his way down the stairs, a blowtorch in hand. He glanced approvingly at the piece of armor. "That's very good. I couldn't have done better." he said, quite gruffly.

Percy beamed. The boy was only 11 years old, but it was clear he had an eye for inventing. Perhaps it was the blessing of Hephaestus, or natural, inherent skill, but he'd soon grown into the premier marketer for quality pieces (second to Hephaestus, of course).

Uncle was, really, out of courtesy. Hephaestus had been more like a father than anything else; but he'd insisted on the formality.

"As much as I'd like to call you my own, you, dear boy, are clearly a demigod." he explained. "As such, one day, another god will claim you."

Percy had pouted at this, his cute little face scrunched up into a quizzical look. "Let them try. You'll always be my true father."

Hephaestus had smiled at this.

And now here they were, several months later, designing battle armor for, finally, Percy himself. He'd insisted on creating it when he'd 'matured', but Hephaestus had deemed it a necessity early on.

"After all, who knows when a monster will attack you?" he'd reasoned. _BUZZ. CRACK._

Percy watched happily as the rest of his suit welded itself together. He'd based the piece largely off of _Iron Man_ (it was one of his favorite movies), but he'd removed the red and yellow for a more subtle darkened silver.

After all, flashy wouldn't do any good in a real fight.

In all truth, the _Iron Man_ suit could do with some improvement; he'd added a nuclear energy cell, celestial bronze guns, and had swapped the famous copper alloy for a stronger, celestial bronze one.

Uncle and nephew watched in veritable glee as the final piece welded itself together. "Can.. can I take it on a test flight?"

Hephaestus gave him a quizzical look. "Alright… if you are SURE you nailed bolt #504 in correctly…"

Percy rolled his eyes. It had been nearly 2 years since the 'Collapsed Tower' incident, and his uncle was still shoving it down his throat.

"Of course, uncle Heph."

"We don't want a repeat of the Collapsed Tower incident, now do we? If I remember correctly, you nailed it at a 45 degree angle. The entire building collapsed, did it not?"

Percy glared at his uncle, which elicited a rare laugh from the god. "Alright, you can go."

"Yay!"

With a childlike pounce, he wrapped himself in the thin metals of the suit. Unlike the _Iron Man_ suit, this suit was extremely thin and extremely durable thanks to Celestial bronze. It also had coolers, and a snack fridge lodged like a backpack behind- Percy's own invention.

He entered the enclave and willed himself to fly-

And absolutely nothing happened.

"Haha!"

Percy glared at Hephaestus, who had dissolved into a fit of laughter. "I don't understand. The suit has a nuclear battery, self-charging! How in the world-"

He was silenced by a grizzled hand.

"Percy. What is rule number 1 of aviation?"

"Turn the plane on."

A knowing light entered his eyes; he face palmed. "Suit. Initiate."

The program had been coded specifically to his voice; any foreign entity would be ejected violently out the front. Ah, ejector pads. The world doesn't have enough of them.

Grinning, he willed himself to fly.

And this time it worked.

The lightweight suit raised itself easily from the floor. He'd, at first, been planning to design it like the _Iron Man _suit in that he wanted to install rocket boosters in the feet. It turned out that such a suit would be extremely difficult to control. It was Hephaestus who first suggested using Greek Fire- a more stable substance- for movement.

"I'll be back in an hour, Uncle!" Percy shouted.

"I'll hold you to it!"

And then the suit raced off down the corridor, rammed through a desk, and bolted out of the giant double doors and into the sunlight.

* * *

Flying was, by far, one of the most exhilarating things he'd ever done. But it wasn't like he didn't have some experience. He'd flown a glider before- but at a much lower altitude. He soared up to meet the clouds and felt the g-force rippling his cheeks. There was something strangely unsettling about the height. He was heading up, higher and higher…

_Into Zeus's domain_ a nasty voice in his head whispered. He dismissed the thought. Why would Zeus have any reason to hurt him?

Streaming along through the top of the clouds, he made his way to the shoreline. Hephaestus forge was smack dab in the middle of nowhere, in the sea of deadly nothingness known as the Atlantic Ocean.

Making his way across the ocean was a huge pain; as such, he didn't have much experience interacting with actual people- not that he wanted to. He was quite comfortable with his machines and his uncle.

A roar of thunder shook him from his reverie. Looking up, he saw dark, grey clouds gathering quickly over the sky.

_Strange. The weather forecast predicted clear skies._

He paid it no mind. The suit was completely waterproof; and if lightning did strike him, a special Celestial bronze lightning rod would deliver the energy to his battery- a little trick he learned from watching the _Avengers_. Funny how much TV can teach you.

The stark silver suit raced across the sky, urging its motors to even greater speeds. Within mere minutes, Percy had decided to take the vehicle up to the sound barrier- around 700 mph.

He'd have liked to make it across to land before the storm caught up with him. The tricky thing about rain is, without a suit, you get wet.

He urged his motors to even greater speeds. The top speed was a shocking 2,000 mph; that was as fast as he could go without experiencing an intense amount of motion sickness.

The suit was now at 1500 mph- supersonic levels. The Statue of Liberty crested the horizon, barely visible now over the waves. Excellent. He almost arrived.

He streaked in the vague direction of Long Island; he'd always been curious about the place. Something about it gave off a radiation that was off the scales- it was almost as if 3 gods, or 1800 demigods gathered there every day.

The storm clouds had truly thickened now; thunder boomed in the distance. Percy wondered idly what gave Zeus cause to be so angry. He'd only seen one storm of this size before, and that had been years ago.

Frowning, he dipped his flight down several hundred meters into the neutral, safe boundary. He didn't want to be caught in a firefight.

He tilted the suit sideways, reversed direction, and sped off back to the volcanic forge.


	6. The Politician

**A scene-by-scene recount of what would've happened if Harry had been more charismatic during his 7 years. **

* * *

The giant and the scrawny boy traipsed slowly up the aisles of Madam Malkin's, looking for good designs- but it was clear neither of them had any taste in fashion. A taller, blond boy sat in the corner, looking very bored.

He was clearly a bureaucrat, what with his cultured tones and smoothed-back hair. It would be wise to make a friend of this one.

"Sorry to bother you…"

Harry made his way over to the boy, smiling a charming grin. "You look like you've got a fantastic taste in fashion…"

The boy smiled. "Yes, of course. It comes with being a pureblood."

"...and I was wondering if you could recommend anything for me? I'm sorry to bother you, my fashion sense is decidedly lacking…"

"Oh, of course. Pick the pitch black with plaid stripes."

Harry grinned, relieved. "Thanks. Are you going to Hogwarts too?"

"Of course. All members of the upper class do."

"Ah. So I take it you're a bureaucrat? I could tell, what with the cultured tone, neatly combed hair.. you do seem a lot more civilized that some other folk I've met."

The blond smiled proudly. "Yes, of course. My name is Draco Malfoy, by the way. And you are…?"

"Harry, Harry Potter."

The boy's eyes widened in surprise.

"Harry Potter?" he echoed. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He held out a hand.

Harry shook it quite vigorously. "The pleasure is mine."

* * *

**Hogwarts Station**

**Several Days Later… **

Ah, trains. Harry'd always loved them, ever since he'd stolen Dudley's model vehicle. They were amazing really- revolutionary, some would say. He was beyond glad that they didn't take the drab way out (i.e. floo powder) and instead decided to build a billion-dollar system.

It really made things more interesting for the students.

He yawned and stretched out in his apartment, listening for the tell-tale rings of the bell, which would signal the start of the ride. Hm. He checked his watch. 10:59 A.M. was displayed in bold, red letters. He grinned.

"Excellent!"

The door suddenly slid to one side; a small, red-headed boy peeked through. "Sorry, all the other seats are full, may I sit here?"

"But of course!" Harry kept up his charming smile. "Here-"

He cleared out a space next to him; the redhead sat, quite grateful.

"Er…" he cleared his throat. "Thank you… er… ?"

"Harry. Harry Potter."

The boy's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you really?"

"I sure hope so…" Harry replied. "And you are?"

"Ron. Ron Weasley."

The pair shook hands. The door suddenly opened to reveal Draco Malfoy. "Ah, Harry. I've been looking for you."

Ron instantly tensed. "Go away, Draco! You snakes aren't welcome here!"

Draco glared. "Oh, I'm the snake, am I?" he hissed.

Harry held up a hand for silence. "Alright, that's enough. Good to see you again, Draco! Is there anything you need?"

By offering his services, he was temporarily alienating any bad feeling from the boy.

Draco cleared his throat. "Oh, no. I was going to offer you my services, actually. There are certain families you should stay away from, you see. The Weasleys are the worst of the worst. I'll bet that's his grandfather's hand-me-down robes! They're blood traitors, the lot of them." He finished, smirking.

Ron perked up, his hands clenching into fists. Harry forestalled them both.

"Ron's actually quite nice. I'll bet both worlds- the worlds of the rich and poor- encourage different traits. Being fairly poor-" he glanced apologetically at Ron, who shrugged. "-will mean that Ron is more humbled and kind, and will defend his status. Being more cultured-" Draco smiled at this. "means that you have more taste and ideas. It may be better for our society if the rich and the poor intermingle more. I can certainly see the potential if you two brilliant minds work together."

Both boys flushed, quite happy. Harry grinned. All malicious feeling had disappeared from the compartment. It was a brilliant stroke tactically, really.

By comparing both worlds and their benefits, he reminded both of their strengths. Introducing a new idea threw them off their feet, and calling them brilliant minds certainly stroked their ego.

"Er- yes, of course. Maybe I SHOULD get to know you better, Ron. Perhaps not all Weasleys are pigs."

Ron winced at this, but didn't rise to the bait. "Why not? Perhaps not all Malfoys are snobs."

Harry, sensing a firefight, grinned nervously. "Excellent! Draco, do you have your own compartment?"

The blond boy shuffled awkwardly. "Actually, that was partly the reason that I came… I can't seem to find room."

Harry nodded. "That's okay. You're always welcome here, Draco."

Draco, relieved, made his way into the compartment and plopped himself onto a seat.


End file.
